At that moment, the man, Jesus, walked toward us.
“Is it you, then?” John said. And turned to us, “Behold the Lamb of God. He is the one I meant when I said ‘who comes after me is greater.’ When he rose from the water, I thought I heard a voice and saw a dove come to him as well. You saw and you heard, Judas, you of all of them. You are to go with him and serve him now.”
Andrew and I hurried after the man.
“Teacher,” Andrew called, “where are you staying?”
“You shall see.”
We walked north, away from the river, away from the Baptizer—Andrew, John, the son of Zebedee, Jesus of Nazareth, and me.
***
I rose and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Jesus stood away from the fire, praying. He held his hands out from his sides, palms up, and head bowed. He rocked gently back and forth, praying with his whole body in the singsong manner of the devout. I stood a few paces away and began my morning prayers, too, but I admit I watched him out of the corner of my eye. If the Lord were listening, I doubt anything I said that morning made much sense.
In midsentence, he lifted his arms, his cloak fell from his head and face to the sky, seemed to be in direct dialog with the Lord himself. I would witness that movement many times over the next three years.
Finished, he turned to me. “Are you hungry, Judas?”
I smelled broiled fish. He handed me a piece of flat bread and a bit of fish and we ate. Andrew and John had wandered off to find some of the others, and we were alone. I finished and tried not to stare at him.
“It is not important.” he said, “how you came to the Father, only that you did. There is no reason why anyone should know the nature of your circumcision. I tell you this now so that you can choose your path. You, of all who come to me, will be asked to sacrifice the most and receive the least in return. You were chosen because you understand these things.”
I survived past my thirteenth year because I made a point of knowing things. But there, standing in the morning mist somewhere away from the Jordan, I knew nothing. At that instant, Andrew danced into our makeshift camp.
“I found the others. They are upstream a little way. I told them about you.”
Jesus kicked some dirt on the fire, his eyes still on me. “Will you follow me?”
I gathered my things and began walking. I needed time to think. He must be the Messiah. John said so. I had no reason to doubt. Less clear to me were the implications of what that meant. Jesus did not quite measure up to what I imagined a new David would be.
In those days, the Messianic expectation burned in the hearts of all Israel. Those very expectations drove us to that moment and that place. But we could not agree as to exactly what the Messiah would do or who he might be. You know the expression: “Three Jews, four opinions.” Some, like me, looked for a king, a new David, to lead an army and restore the Kingdom. More thoughtful and, I thought, timid people expected Elijah, the forerunner. Others waited for a second Moses to lead us out of this new bondage. As we walked among Galilee’s lush hills, I tried to plumb Jesus’ mind. I listened to him speak, I prayed for discernment, and still I could not be sure. David, Elijah, or Moses?
***
On one particular Sabbath, we entered a synagogue near Nazareth and took our places on the backbench. I anticipated a lively dispute because, by then, I had heard enough of his teaching to guess some sparks would fly. The president of the assembly recognized Jesus as local and, as a courtesy, asked him to read. Jesus took the scroll and opened it. I have no idea whether the scroll just happened to open to the passage it did, if he turned to the next lesson in the synagogue’s lectionary, or if he picked it on purpose. However it happened, he read from Isaiah where it is written:
The spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me to preach the good news to the poor. It is I he has sent to declare freedom for prisoners, and sight to the blind, the release of the oppressed, and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.
Then he carefully rolled the scroll and said, calm as you please, “Today this scripture is fulfilled in your presence.”
His poise and the force of his words resonated with us and a few others, I think. But most of the listeners sat glued to their benches, murmuring among themselves—“Isn’t this Joseph, the builder’s son?…Who does he think he is?”
In the midst of all the muttering, he added, “You are probably wondering why I, of all people, am bold enough to say this. You have in mind I should do here in Nazareth what I have done elsewhere. All I can offer is the proverb about the physician healing himself. Well, the truth is, a prophet is never honored in his own home. If I were to do anything here, it would prove nothing. I will always just be your neighbor’s son.”
He went on to remind them the only person who offered to shelter and feed Elijah was a poor gentile widow. He would have expanded on that point but the congregation grew angry and shoved us all out onto the street. I guessed we would not be going back to that synagogue anytime soon.
***
Andrew, Philip, John, Nathaniel, and I left the Jordan together. Thomas rejoined us as we were entering the Galilee. I do not know where he had been. He had a habit of disappearing from time to time and returning some days later looking a little worse for wear. I wondered, sometimes, why he joined us in the first place. He was not particularly pious or versed in the scriptures. He would poke fun at John, whom he called “our Pharisee,” a name John did not like, but which fit.
As we walked along the shores of the sea, Jesus beckoned to James, John’s brother, and Simon, Andrew’s brother. Jesus told them there were enough men catching fish; what he needed was fishers to catch men. They laughed. James, the son of Alphaeus and another of that company, also named Judas, came with us as well. That made ten of us, enough for a minyan.
***
I had no idea what I let myself in for when Jesus gave me the responsibility for the community purse. I had to be sure there was always enough to keep us fed and sheltered. I paid taxes nearly everywhere we went. When I first arrived in Galilee, I saw the crushing burden taxes imposed by the empire, by regional rulers, and the temple. But I passed them off as the usual oppression found throughout the empire. Paying these taxes and meeting the cost of feeding and housing ten to twenty men and women every day grew into a daunting task. And to make matters worse, Jesus insisted on giving our money away to every beggar and sorry case that wandered into camp. He assumed that no matter what strains were placed on the purse, whatever demands were made, I would find a way to make it come out right.
The others marveled at the way I could find food, shelter, and money. I even surprised myself. “Surely, you have become a thief, Judas.” Simon said. He joked, of course, and I did not mind it, at least not at first, but I wished he understood how hard I worked to do those things. John took to calling me “the Thief” or just “Thief,” but he intended no humor in his words.
Chapter Twenty-six
Before he joined us, Thomas used to scrape his face like the Gentiles. But in our company he let his beard grow out. While John remained standoffish and suspicious, Thomas grew open and friendly. We spoke often about the Messiah, about Jesus, and what he would do when he decided to declare himself. I told Thomas we should collect as much money as possible. The weapons and men we needed would cost a great deal, he said. He did not believe it could be done. I assured him it could. I had done it before and I could do it again. He wanted to know how and when. I almost told him, but felt unsure of my place in the company and decided not to risk it just then. As things turned out, it was just as well.
One evening when the others, the fishermen, busied themselves with their nets and boats, Thomas and I wandered off into the hills. I asked him what brought him to us.
“I do not mean to pry,” I said, “but you are not like the others. You seem to stand back and watch us like we are a caravan passing by.”
“And you—are you so much like these fisher folk?”
&nb
sp; He had me there. I shrugged and smiled.
“This not the life I would have chosen. I came to this place against my will,” he said. I waited and finally he grinned.
“It is a long story. Are you sure you wish to hear it?”
“Yes, if you wish to tell it.”
“It starts with a well that was not really a well.” He paused a moment, I suppose to gather his thoughts. “We dug almost twenty cubits straight down and hadn’t even found damp earth, much less water. My father had this dream about water, and decided it meant we were to have our own well. ‘It would be a fine thing,’ he said, ‘to have a well. It would bring honor to the family.’ My father was very sensitive to the need for honor. He didn’t get much respect in our village and wanted to reclaim some of what he had before, when we lived in Nazareth. The well seemed like a good idea. We argued about whether we should keep digging or not.
“I came home early one afternoon and Rebecca, my sister, stood by it, frightened and unable to move. A Roman soldier, his back to me, had dropped his belt, laid his helmet to one side, and plunged his short sword into the earth. It stood erect at his feet. I could not see his face except as reflected in the terror on Rebecca’s. I picked up a rock. It’s what we did then, all of us. We weren’t allowed arms, not so close to the Roman garrison and so we, the young men that is, used to throw stones at soldiers, our act of rebellion against an occupying army, against our oppressors. What else could we do? We would toss stones and since the soldiers had no stomach for a two mile run in the hills, they never caught us. We fought Rome where our fathers could not.
“This stone was palm-sized, heavy, and of dark basalt. I threw it at the soldier as hard as I could and then braced for the dash I would make into the hills. Just as the stone left my hand, something, my grunting at the launch probably, made him turn. The stone caught him on the temple, just behind his right eye. He groaned and dropped to his knees like a stunned ox. His eyes snapped back and he pitched forward on his face. Dust billowed up around him, you know, like it will when a tree falls. Nobody moved. Finally, I said, ‘Rebecca, run before he wakes up.’ She ran down the hill to find my father. The soldier still lay on his face. I walked up to him and nudged him with my toe. Nothing happened so I kicked him. Still nothing. Dead! How could that be?
“I remember growing up and wondering how David killed Goliath. I loved the story but had my doubts. How could one smooth stone drop such a giant? Had they told me the truth, or did they improve the story to make a point—tiny Israel and mighty Philista, the hand of God on our side? Well, when I saw that soldier crumple in our yard, I knew it had to be true. I had only wanted to give Rebecca a chance to run. Instead I slew Goliath. The rush of pride I felt only lasted a moment. Then I realized what I had done and the consequences that would follow. I had killed one of Caesar’s legionnaires. I, my family, and maybe the whole village were doomed.
“What happened next wasn’t part of any conscious decision. I guessed nothing I would do could make things worse. I dragged the corpse over to the wellhead and dumped it in. He landed in a heap in the bottom, curled up like a baby. I picked up the helmet and sword and tossed them in, too. I didn’t dare reward myself with my giant’s sword and armor like David. Then, with the energy that comes from mortal fear, I began to fill in the well.
“My father joined me. Soon the soldier disappeared under rocks and dirt. Rebecca hissed at us. The rest of the Patrol had started up the hill. My father busied himself in the garden. I grabbed some clay pots and carried them to the back door. Rebecca disappeared into the house and hid under a pile of blankets. They came up the hill and stopped just beyond the court wall.
“Their leader wanted to know what happened to their comrade. The patrol had come to our village looking for weapons, it seemed.
“So he says, ‘He was seen at your house,’ looking at me hard, and then turned to my father, ‘Old man, have you seen him?’
“My father looked at me and then at the soldier. I couldn’t read his expression but I knew he was pondering which lie would work.
“He said, ‘Yes, he came by here awhile ago. He told us we were to say he was not well and returned to your camp. He said I should tell you that.’ My father made a living negotiating the sale of caravan goods and other services. To do that he had a manner of speaking that was ingenuous and utterly sincere. It served him well in the past and I prayed with all my heart it would work this time as well.
“The soldier thought a moment…‘He was unwell and wished to return to camp?’ My father nodded. Then the soldier looked him in the face, ‘He said you were to say that, but that is not what he really meant, am I right?’ My father shuffled his feet. ‘Where did he go?’ The soldier demanded, as if to say we couldn’t fool him.
“‘That way,’ my father said, and pointed over the hills toward the house of Isis, the prostitute. ‘There are bandits and thieves in the hills over there.’
“‘Dagon is a fool,’ the soldier said. ‘I’ll deal with him when he comes back to camp. He peered down our well, now not as deep as before, ‘What’s this?’ he demanded.
“We are digging a well,” I said. ‘A well?’ he said. ‘Were you given permission to dig a well?’
“My father said, ‘we didn’t know we needed it.’
“‘You know it now.’ He turned to the rest of the patrol. ‘Fill in this hole.’ And we watched, biting our tongues, while the soldiers finished burying their comrade.
“After the patrol marched away, Father turned to me. ‘Thomas, you cannot stay here. That soldier may be a fool, but his commander is not, and there will be questions. Your brother Aaron and I must go to Damascus tomorrow. I have business there. Your mother and sister will return to Nazareth to her sister’s. You must go south, somewhere where they will not look for you and where no one in the village will guess you might be.’”
“We argued about that. I said, ‘Let me go to one of the cities of the Decapolis, Caesarea Phillipi or Gerasa.’ And he said, ‘No, not there.’ So I suggested Tiberius. ‘They won’t look for me there.’
‘That is precisely where they will look. But that is where we will tell people you are going…yes, that is what we will do. No, you are to go south to the Jordan. There is a holy man there, a prophet, after the way of Elijah. You will go to him.’
“Can you imagine that, Judas? A holy man and me?
“Judas, you are not from around here. Galileans believe things of the spirit are important, but to be attended to by others. The people of Judea, for example, place great stock in that, but not us. And that is why my father chose the Jordan and, as it turned out, the Baptizer. It would be the last place anyone would look for me. I protested. The thought of cooling my heels in the Jordan with a desert fanatic struck me as worse punishment than being hung for murder. But my father couldn’t be dissuaded. His word was law in our house, however much I chafed under it.
“They packed my traveling bag for me and provided me with money, and here I am. Whether this is to be my calling or not, I cannot say. I await word from my father.”
I decided then that I would like this skeptic.
Chapter Twenty-seven
We were beside the Sea of Galilee, and a large group, perhaps a hundred or more, gathered. Jesus said, “Peter, bring one of your boats around that I may put some distance between myself and the crowd.”
Peter and Andrew launched one of their boats. Jesus stepped into it and allowed it to drift out a dozen cubits from the shore. The hills behind sloped gently upward, away from the shore, creating a natural amphitheater. The air was very still, and his voice carried over the water, so anyone on the shore could easily hear him.
He began a speech he’d made before and would again. Each time he added or left out bits, but it remained substantially the same.
“Blessed are you who are poor, for you shall be the inheritors of the kingdom. Blessed are those who are hungry and thirsty, for you shall be satisfied. Blessed are those who cry out and weep from suffe
ring, for soon you shall laugh. Blessed are you when others hate you, or reject you or scorn you or call you evil because of me.
“But woe to the rich and pompous, for they have already received all they will ever get. And woe to the well fed and fat among you, for soon they will know hunger. And woe to the men who laugh at my words and at those not as fortunate, for they will soon receive their share of weeping and mourning. And woe to you also, who think you are wise and whom others speak so highly of, for that was how they spoke of those who destroyed the prophets.”
I loved hearing words that convicted the people who acted so terribly to me and Dinah and Mother. Oh, yes, it would be a fine day when the self-righteous were brought down to our level.
Then he said, “Love your enemies. Bless those who curse you. Pray for them. If someone strikes you on the side of your face, let him hit you on the other side. If someone takes your cloak, let him have your tunic as well.”
I thought, nobody but a fool would behave that way, and I glanced at the faces around me and realized I was not alone in that.
“If someone takes something that belongs to you, do not demand they give it back. Treat them in the same manner you would have them treat you. Do not judge or condemn others and you will not be judged. If you expect to be forgiven, you must first forgive. Give and it will be returned to you, a full measure and more.”
While all of this sank in, one of the men in the crowd shouted at him, “Rabbi Jesus, Moses gave us the Law and he received it from the Lord. Are you saying you can make Law, as well? Just who do you think you are, God?”
That question would haunt me for the next three years.
***
Jesus made a habit of calling one or the other of us to him at night, before he prayed. I do not know what he said to the others, but that night as we sat under the stars, he looked at me for a long time like a physician studies his patient.
Judas Page 11
